


Nothing To Write Home About

by Redrikki



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pen Pals, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:05:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9415241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/pseuds/Redrikki
Summary: A month after losing his wife, Cliegg Lars decides to write to her son. Anakin Skywalker gets the pen pal he never knew he needed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [jilyandbambi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jilyandbambi) for the beta and brainstorming.

There was a message from an unknown sender waiting on Anakin’s com channel when he finally stumbled into his bunk after three straight days of fighting on Muunilinst. According to the time stamp, it had been there for awhile, but he must have missed it under the constant barrage of orders and battle updates of the last few days. Anakin could barely keep his eyes open, but his heart raced at the sight of the blinking notification. Padmé. It must be from Padmé. Who else would be writing him from an unlisted com frequency?

It wasn’t from Padmé. _Anakin,_ it read, _you hardly know me, but your mother would have wanted us to look after each other. I know the Jedi are involved in the fighting. Are you alright? Please, don’t be a stranger. Cliegg Lars._

Cliegg Lars? _Cliegg Lars?!_ How did he even have Anakin’s com frequency? Anakin certainly didn’t remember giving it to him. But then, he didn’t remember much about that last trip to Tatooine. Just the rattle of his mother’s dying breath, the weight of her body, and the stench of burning flesh as he cut down Tusken after Tusken. The rest of it was lost in a haze of rage and grief and sand.

For a moment, Anakin wanted to ignore it, delete it, smash the comlink on the floor. He didn’t need this reminder of his failure as a Jedi and a son, not when he’d just spent the last three days failing over and over again to protect his men. No, Anakin didn’t need this, but maybe Lars did. His mom always said that the biggest problem in the galaxy was that no one helped each other. She would want him to look after her widower.

Yawning hugely and struggling to focus his eyes, Anakin sent out a quick reply and feel asleep with his boots on.

****

Cliegg woke alone to the smell of caf and frying eggs. Lying with his eyes closed, he imagined Shmi must have gotten up before him and started making breakfast. But when he reached across, her side of the bed was cold. A few of her dark hairs still clung to her pillow, but it had lost the shape of her head. His wife slept in sand now and Cleigg would sleep alone until he joined her. He let his grief wash over him, then pushed it aside and started his day.

In the kitchen, Beru puttered around the stove while Owen methodically shoveled forkfuls of egg into his mouth. He grunted a greeting as Cliegg floated to the table on his power chair. Since Cliegg’s injury, Owen had taken over more and more of the farm work. He needed to eat fast if he had any hope of staying on top of it.

“Good morning,” Beru said as she set a plate and steaming mug of caf down in front of him. Cliegg took a sip of the caf before digging in. The eggs weren’t quite like Shmi’s, but the caf had just the right about of blue milk mixed in. Beru joined them with her own breakfast a moment later. “There’s a message for you on the comm channel,” she said as she settled down on the bench next to Owen.

“Really? Who from?”

“Anakin,” Owen grumbled between mouthfuls. “Days late and a few hundred credits short as always.”

Beru frowned at her husband, but Cliegg just sighed. After years of Shmi’s stories about her sweet, talented boy, the strange young man who had walked off into the desert and came back with her corpse had been something of a disappointment. He’d fixed every broken thing on the farm, but had barely spoken to any of them. What Cliegg chalked up to grief and shock, Owen put down to Jedi pride and standoffishness, and no amount of tutting on Beru’s part would change that. Cliegg had hoped that maybe getting to know Anakin would. It had been a disappointment that when Cliegg reached out and the boy never reached back.

“What does it say?” Beru asked, leaning forward to get a glimpse as Cliegg pulled the message up on a data pad. He read it over, then read it again, and a third time just to make sure. Weren’t the Jedi supposed to have educated the boy? Shmi had been a slave her whole life and she wrote better than this.

“Well?” Owen put his fork down and joined his wife in trying to sneak a peek. He had a man’s shape and bore a man’s burden, but, by the suns, he looked just like a boy at that moment.

Cliegg chuckled and read Anakin’s message aloud, word for word as he’d written it. “Sorry. Tired. Three days fighting Muunilinst. Lost rt arm Geonosis. Hop u r well. Anakin.”

Owen and Beru blinked at him as they tried to process Anakin’s incoherent jumble of a message. Owen took a long gulp of his caf to help and shook his head. 

Beru’s fork clattered on the table as it slipped from her fingers. “He lost his _arm_?!” Beru exclaimed. She pulled the data pad from Cleigg’s hand to read it over herself. “He lost his arm and they sent him to _fight_?” She slapped it down on the table with a bit more force than necessary. 

What? Cliegg pulled the pad around read the message again. _Lost rt arm Geonosis._ The fighting there had happened just after Anakin and his woman had left, a little over a standard month ago. Even with all the medicine a Hutt could afford, there was no way he’d be well enough to tie his own boots, let alone fight in a war. Yet, from the sound of it, that’s just what he was doing. The Jedi had promised Shmi that they would take care her son and provide him with an education. Based on Anakin’s message, they’d done neither. Well, someone needed to look after this boy and it might as well be his family. Cliegg Lars set aside his breakfast and began to write. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin and Ahsoka spend some time at the Lars farm after rescuing Jabba's son.

Anakin was waiting outside along with a Togruta girl and an astromech when Cliegg arrived at Jabba’s palace. The girl sat dozing against the atromech while Anakin stood guard over them. His hand rested on his lightsaber and his eyes were watchful, but his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. They slumped further, this time with relief, as Cliegg pulled the speeder up beside him. 

“Thanks for coming.” He flashed Cliegg a tired smile. 

“Happy to,” Cliegg said and he was. If Beru had had her way, he wouldn’t have come at all. Since he’d lost his leg, his son and daughter-in-law had taken to coddling him. They could handle the farm, they insisted. Better he stay inside and rest like a useless lump. It galled, being treated like a helpless child in his own house. When Beru argued that she should go and pick Anakin up, Cliegg had put his remaining foot down. Shmi’s son needed _him_ , and he’d be damned if he let the boy down. 

Anakin nudged the girl with his foot. “Ride’s here.” 

Yawning, she stretched to her feet and twisted to work the kinks out of her back. Just a slip of a thing really, but a Jedi none the less judging by the lightsaber on her belt. She frowned at Cliegg and his battered speeder. “ _This_ is our ride? Where’s the transport?”

“They can’t pick us up for another rotation,” Anakin explained. “Cliegg agreed to let us stay at his farm until then.” He herded her gently towards the speeder. “Ahsoka, this is Cliegg Lars. Cliegg, this is Padawan Ahsoka Tano.” He introduced them with the formality of a trained diplomat.

Ahsoka bowed and it was all Cliegg could do to nod politely back without laughing in her face. First that pretty girl with her expensive clothes and now this one with her bowing. For an ex-slave, Shmi’s boy sure had fancy friends. “Climb on in,” he said, his amusement leaking into his voice.

The youngsters piled in, Ahsoka and the droid claiming the back while Anakin joined Cliegg up front. “Sorry to drag you all the way out here,” Anakin said as they got under way. “I just couldn’t stay another minute at Jabba’s.” He raised his voice to be heard over the sound of the engine and wind. 

Cliegg studied Anakin’s pinched and exhausted features. He looked like he’d aged a decade in the handful of months since Shmi’s funeral. A scar bisected his right eyebrow. He’d replaced his missing arm with a mechanical one, but it was clear the war had not been kind.

“Nothing to worry about.” Cliegg shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to spend any more time with that slug than I had to if I was you. Besides” —he patted Anakin’s leg— “we’re family.”

“Family?” Ahsoka leaned forward, craning her neck to look back and forth between the two men. “Just how do you know Master Skywalker?”

Master. Anakin winced at the word. It was nothing dramatic, but Cliegg caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“He tell you to call him that?” Cliegg asked sharply.

“Well, no.” Ahsoka backed away from his anger. “He’s my teacher. What else am I supposed to call him?” 

Had the Jedi made Anakin call his teachers that? Master This and Master That like he was still a slave? If his wife had known it would have broken her heart. “Master means something different here. It’s what property calls their owner.” 

“I—I had no idea.” 

She probably thought Cliegg was a slave now or maybe just an ex-slave seeing as he was a farmer. Did she know Skywalker was a slave name? Probably not if she was calling him master as simple as breathing. Cliegg glanced over at his step-son to see what he thought only to find that he’d nodded off. His head hung forward and he was starting to list to the right. With his bangs hanging in his eyes like that, he finally looked like the little boy from Shmi’s stories. 

“Long day, I guess,” Cliegg said with a chuckle.

“You have no idea,” Ahsoka said and launched into a story more action packed than a holodrama.

*****

Waking up, Anakin knew he was on Tatooine even before he opened his eyes. He hated it, the sand, the slavery, the _memories_ , but there was something about the place that resonated with his bones. It wasn’t home, not any more, but he’d fit in here in a way he hadn’t since he'd left. He’d been a slave, but he’d had a mom and friends and a place that made sense.

Anakin opened his eyes to stare up at the unfamiliar ceiling. It took a moment for his brain to reboot and the memories to come flooding back. The mission. The huttlet. The desert. Lars. Anakin could hear his voice down the hall mingling with Ahsoka’s. Ahsoka. He couldn’t believe he’d been assigned a padawan. What had Master Yoda been thinking?

He found them in the kitchen with Owen and Beru, eating a stew that smelled like something his mother would have made. Their conversation broke off mid-word. Anakin felt like an intruder under the their cold stares. Then Beru flashed him a welcoming smile and got up to fix him a bowl.

“Nice of you to join us, sleepy head,” she teased like she really was his sister and not just some random woman married to the son of the man who had married his mother.

Anakin accepted the bowl with an awkward smile and slipped into the empty space on the bench next to Ahsoka. The stew tasted like his mother’s cooking too. Tangy womp rat, sweet desert onion, and spicy black melon rinds. His eyes fluttered shut as as he savored it. He’d never thought he’d miss the taste of Tatooine.

“Ahsoka’s been telling us about your adventures,” Cliegg said. It wasn’t in his voice, but he radiated a faint air of disapproval.

There was nothing faint about Owen’s feelings on the subject. “That slaver’s spawn gets kidnapped and the Jedi pull out all the stops, but when the same thing happens to Shmi—” His face tightened. For a moment, it looked like he might cry or throw something or both. Then Beru laid a gentle hand on his arm and he crumpled. He exhaled sharply and looked away.

Anakin knew he should say something appropriately Jedi, if only for Ahsoka’s sake. Something about acting impartially or about putting duty to the Republic above personal considerations. The problem was, Owen hadn’t said anything Anakin hadn’t thought a thousand times since he’d gotten the assignment. “Rotta had strategic value.” He couldn’t manage to keep his bitterness out of his voice. 

Ahsoka frowned at him. “All life is sacred. Everyone has value.” She looked around the table for some support. “We couldn’t just leave Stinky there.”

“The Jedi and the Republic have certain strategic interests and limited resources with which to achieve them.” Anakin had heard this lecture so many times he could recite it in his sleep. He slipped into an unconscious imitation of Obi-Wan’s Corsucant accent. “You can’t save everyone, Ahsoka.”

She rolled her eyes with a huff. “I know that. We can’t save everyone, but why are you all so angry we saved _him_?”

Cliegg didn’t slam his spoon down. He set it down beside his bowl, gently, deliberately, but with such concentrated force it drew everyone’s immediate attention. “We’re mad, Ahsoka, because the Jedi _say_ all life is sacred, but, given the choice between saving a rich man’s son or a poor man’s wife, they help the rich and powerful every time.”

The words hit like a blow to the stomach. Master Jinn had said that he wasn’t there to free slaves, but Anakin wouldn’t listen. He was so sure the Jedi would help the helpless and, once it became clear they wouldn’t, he was just as sure he _would_. Instead, he’d abandoned Rex and his men to die for the son of the hutt who used to own him. How had it come to this? How was this his life?

Anakin buried his face in his hands. “I just wanted to free slaves.” It was the only thing that would have made leaving his mom worthwhile. 

“So do it then,” Owen said like it was the simplest thing in the world. He didn’t understand. Only a free man could think like that. 

“It doesn’t work that way.” Anakin shook his head. “I can’t just _do_ anything.” There were orders and he had to follow them. He had to obey the Masters. He couldn’t free anyone without first finding a way to free himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family crisis brings everyone together, metaphorically anyway.

“Kriffing piece of—” Owen made as if to kick the broken pump then thought better of it, hurling the hydrospaner across the growing room with a wordless howl instead. His anger spent, he sank down on the toolbox with his head in his hands. “I wish Shmi was here.”

She probably wouldn’t have thought much of their boy’s little performance, but Cliegg understood the sentiment. His late wife had had a real knack for spreading calm and making every disaster seem more like a survivable inconvenience. “Not sure even she could fix this,” Cliegg said, aiming for a joke and falling well short. Shmi had spent years babying the temperamental thing along, only for it to fall apart without her. Just like their family.

Owen sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He pet the nearest seedling like a tooka. Less than 24 hours without circulating water, and it was already wilting. “I can run some new piping to connect to the north pump,” he said. It was a stop-gap measure at best, and one which might overstrain their only working pump in the meantime. It was better than letting the crop die, but not by much.

“Gonna need a new pump soon either way,” Cliegg said, scratching his beard. Owen grimaced at the idea, but didn’t deny it. The way Cliegg saw it, they had two lousy options. They could go into town and trade some of the farm equipment they could scarcely afford to lose for a used pump that might die on them, or go to Jabba and borrow enough money for a new one and pray they paid off the debt before the hutt decided to take them as slaves instead. 

“What about Anakin?” Owen asked after they’d discussed their options.

Cliegg shrugged. Jabba might cut them a deal in thanks for Anakin saving his son. It might rain enough to wash away the desert too, which seemed just as likely. 

“No” —Owen rolled his eyes at the idea of a generous hutt— “I mean why don’t we ask Anakin for the money? He’s been on Coruscant for years. He’s got to be rich by now.”

“I don’t know.” Cliegg shook his head. It didn’t seem right to ask Shmi’s son for money. It felt too much like begging.

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re always saying he’s family. About time he start pulling his weight around here,” he said, sounding more than a little bitter. He hadn’t minded so much when it was Shmi talking about her son, back when Anakin was about as distant as a character in a story and twice as wonderful. The pedestal Shmi had built for him was a high one to fall from and Owen still hadn’t quite recovered. At least that was what Cliegg liked to tell himself. Better that than a grown man was jealous of his father’s pen pal. 

Cliegg sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He hated to admit it, but the boy was right. He couldn’t let his pride stand in the way of a successful harvest. Besides, if there was one thing Owen and Beru had tried to drill into his head since he’d lost his leg, it was that there was no shame in asking family for help.

**********

Anakin twisted the hem of his tunic as they waited for C-3P0 to bring in the dessert. Padmé had pulled out all the stops for this private welcome home dinner and now four courses of rich Naboo food sat like a stone in Anakin’s stomach. He gulped the too-sweet Nebarrie blossom wine to try to water the desert in his mouth. It didn’t help. He just needed to find the right time to bring it up, maybe while cuddling on the couch or brushing her hair before bed. In the meantime, he just needed to wait and try not to throw up.

Padmé intercepted Anakin’s hand as he went for his wine again. “Ani, is something wrong?”  
The urge to lie was overwhelming, but no. He was a Jedi knight, a general, and he could do this. He took a deep, bracing breath and charged into the breech. “I know I have no right to ask you this, but could I borrow 900 credits?” he blurted in a rush before he could lose his nerve. He had no way of paying it back since Jedi weren’t paid, but ‘borrow’ made it sound like an investment and she’d probably like that.

Padmé’s eyes went wide. Anakin caught of flash of shock-horror in the Force before it disappeared behind her placid political mask. 

“It’s not for me,” he hurried to assure her, “and it’s just this once.” He didn’t want her thinking he was greedy or selfish. He’d married her for love, not money. “Cliegg, Cliegg Lars, my step-father, he says they’ve lost their hydroponic submersible pump and—”

“The submersible pump! They’ll lose the whole harvest!” Luckily, C-3PO had set the dessert down before throwing up his hands in despair. There were times when the droid’s hysterics could be a bit much, but for once his timing and dramatics were perfect. “They’re doomed. Doomed!” He wailed as he headed back toward the kitchen. 

“Doomed,” Padmé repeated flatly. She’d spent too much time around C-3PO’s pessimistic hyperbole to take any of it seriously. She raised a skeptical eyebrow and looked to Anakin for confirmation. 

Anakin nervously licked his lips. “If they don’t get it replaced, they could lose the harvest and they may starve.” He was laying it on thick, they still had their bantha and could always hunt, but they really did need the money. Without it, the Lars might have to borrow from the hutts and that was never a good idea. 

“Padmé, please.” He clutched her hand. Maybe he should kneel like beggars and supplicants to the throne did. “It’s less than the cost of your dress and—”

“Of course you can have the money!” Padmé cut him off, appalled at his antics. She patted his hand and gave him a strained smile. “Anakin, you’re my husband. Everything I have is yours as well.”

“I—” Anakin struggled to wrap his mind around it. Padmé was almost obscenely rich with her apartment and estate by the lake and now, somehow, they were also his. He had a lake house. “What?”

Padmé laughed, slightly uncomfortably. “What did you think our vows meant?”

“To love each other for always?”

She smiled again, a real one this time. “That too. Our lives are forever joined,” she recited in a husky sort of voice that made Anakin feel like they were marrying all over again. “What was once mine is now ours,” she continued, giving the line a whole new meaning. She kissed their joined hands and the knot which had been his stomach all night finally loosened.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shmi accepts a proposal and the men in her life team up to give her freedom.

_Then..._

Cliegg took her hands and knelt before her. “Shmi, if I can free you, will you marry me?”

Shmi looked down at his earnest, upturned face and knew she didn’t love him. Did it matter, considering what he was offering? She liked him well enough. He was a good father and a decent man. In the months since he had rented her services to fix a broken vaporator, Cliegg had treated her to dozens of dinners. It was obvious what he wanted. As a free man, he could have easily taken it, but all they had done was talk about their sons, the farm, their lives. He could be a good husband and, if he wasn’t, Shmi could leave without worrying she would blow up.

She sank to her knees and kissed him. “Yes.”

They made love as a sort of trail run. It was awkward in the way that the first time with someone always is, but she supposed Cliegg was an attentive enough lover. They cuddled together in the afterglow and somehow that was better. She hadn’t laid with another person like this since Anakin was small. Lying in Cliegg’s arms felt better than she ever would have imagined it could. She didn’t love him, but she could get used to this.

She stroked the arm he had looped around her waist. “How long do you think until you can buy me?”

“Well—” Cliegg shifted to scratch his beard— “I’ve got 20 peggats saved up.”

Twenty peggats? Shmi’s heart sank. What vital piece of equipment was he passing up for the pleasure of her company? A vaporator? A hydroponic pump? The worst of it was that it would’t even be enough. 

“Cliegg, I’m valued at 25.”

“Oh. Maybe I could—” He trailed off as he accepted the truth. They both knew how much money a farm like his made. Even if he scrimped and save and starved himself, it would be years before he could afford her.

There might, however, be something Shmi could do. She squirmed free of Cliegg’s embrace and pulled a dented toolbox down from the shelf. Inside were all her little treasures. A japor hairpin. A wire ring. Ani’s first tooth. The last thing he ever handed to her. The bag clinked as she lifted it.

Since Anakin left, Shmi hadn’t spent a wupiupi of it any more than she had sold the junk he had left scattered around the house. Maybe it had been her way of hanging onto a piece of him. Maybe there had been nothing worth buying without him there to share in it. Or maybe she’d just been waiting for this moment. Shmi emptied the bag onto the bed in a rain of silver and gold.

“Where did you get this?” Cliegg asked even as he started counting. 

“The sale of Ani’s pod racer.” Shmi watched as he made little piles of the different denominations. Three peggats, two truguts, and twelve wupiupi. Still not enough. Shmi closed her eyes and bid her short-lived dreams of freedom goodbye.

“Hey—“ Cliegg wrapped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze— “no giving up now. This gets us closer. I can sell—”

“No!” Shmi shook him off. “You can’t sell your son’s future any more than you already have. Not for me.” She’d long accepted her place in this world. Why couldn’t he?

“Shmi—” 

He reached for her, but she turned away, blinking tears from her eyes. Her gaze fell on the sonic hairbrush Anakin had made for her. He had promised to free her too, but her beautiful boy wasn’t here. Just his things were. The house was littered with them, dozens of useful, clever gadgets that had to be worth something. 

“Cliegg—” she seized his arm in her excitement— “we’ll sell Anakin’s projects!” Not C-3PO, obviously, or his half-finished slave-chip finder, but all the cleaning droids, repaired com links, and kitchen scrubbers should get them what they needed. Shmi could feel it in her bones.

“Are you sure?” Cliegg asked, taking her hand. “I know how much he means to you.”

Oh, dear man. She didn’t love him now, but Shmi could see the day when she might come to. “Anakin swore he would free me. It’s right that he should help do it you now. 

“Alright.” Cliegg kissed their joined hands. “You tell me what to sell and you’ll be a free woman by tomorrow.”

It would likely take a few more days than that to find buyers for it all and they should really wait until race day when Watto’s inevitable losses made him desperate enough to sell, but Shmi appreciated the sentiment. She could scarcely imagine freedom, but she was starting to look forward to the prospect of being his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not interested in checking Wookiepedia for the details of Hutt currency, one peggat is worth 4 truguts or 64 wupiupi. It’s roughy the equivalent of 40 Republic credits.


End file.
